


the only world we've got

by andibeth82



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Gen, POV Female Character, Sharon Carter is the biggest BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:08:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1840420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sharon Carter is ten years old, she punches a boy on the school playground and knocks out three of his teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only world we've got

**Author's Note:**

> When life gives you sudden inspiration, make stories about female characters who don't get enough screen time.
> 
> Thanks to [fidesangelus](http://fidesangelus.tumblr.com) for beta. Let's go dancing. <3
> 
> (All liberties taken with Sharon Carter in this fic are my own. Mostly based on MCU!Sharon than anything else.)

When Sharon Carter is ten years old, she punches a boy on the school playground and knocks out three of his teeth.

The yard monitor puts her on time out and the principal puts her on temporary leave. Sharon’s mother comes to school with a sigh and a frown and a lot of words about how to behave responsibly, and Sharon takes it all with silence, a nod and verbal agreement. It’s not how she would have wanted to rule the world, this ultimate passiveness and admonition that makes her little more than a mute nobody. But she also knows that this world is the only one she has.

(And so Sharon learns early on that sometimes, in order to get what you want, you have to play the game - even if it means acting opposite of what you believe in.)

The same day that Sharon’s mother comes and scolds her for her actions, Sharon’s aunt takes her aside after dinner and tells her that she knows what Sharon has done.

“Your mother was not wrong to reprimand you,” Peggy says with a voice that sounds like it’s seen war, and Sharon is not yet old enough to understand that it has. “But you were also not wrong to fight back.” She presses palm against palm, a vapid collection of wrinkles overlaying smooth skin, lines that Sharon knows tell stories bigger than the creases they make, though she also knows they are ones she’s not yet permissible to hear.

“We are not little girls.”

Sharon Carter doesn’t like violence. But Sharon Carter also doesn’t like being told she can’t do things. And so when she hears the remark that girls are too stupid to play in their made-up games about spies and battle and armies, well –

Turns out, Sharon Carter doesn’t really give a shit about the way the world is supposed to work.

 

***

 

When Sharon Carter is eighteen years old, she has a birthday, and she gets a gun.

She lies to other people when they ask what she received: a bottle of perfume, a designer bag, a necklace - the normal things that normal girls get when they come of a monumental age. But Sharon’s normal is not jewelry or expensive clothing, nor is it a car or an all-expense paid international cruise. And so when her aunt gives her a package containing a small handgun, shiny gleaming silver surrounded by a collection of fluffy blue and red tissue, she doesn’t blink or even flinch because _this_ is her normal.

“I had one when I was about your age,” Peggy says as she watches her niece turn the revolver over in her hands and Sharon looks up, pushing her lips together in a frown.

“Did you use it?” she asks, in a tone that borders more on curious than overly eager. Peggy nods slowly.

“I did. More times than I wanted to, in order to protect myself and the people I cared about.” She pauses. “It was given to me because I was to do a job where someone believed that I would make a difference. And that’s the same reason why I’m giving it to you.”

Sharon lowers her gaze and stares down at the weapon, the weight of responsibility that seems to be hidden in one small pistol, and then glances back up at her aunt.

“I’m not sure how I’m supposed to make a difference,” she replies reluctantly, thinking of the shiny new Academy ID sitting in her book bag, the hours upon hours of reading she knows await her from the thickly bound manual that rests at her feet. Peggy shrugs, seemingly unconcerned.

“You don’t need to know right now,” she promises, steering the conversation from worry to comfort in the only way Sharon has ever known. “And you will know how, eventually. Do you remember what I told you?”

Sharon nods, fixating her gaze on Peggy’s own, delicate and deep eyes meeting sharp, young orbs.

“We are not little girls.”

Peggy smiles and Sharon tucks the gun back into the gift bag, squares her shoulders and sits up a little straighter in the chair.

 

***

 

When Sharon Carter is twenty-five, she gets an assignment.

His name is Captain America. His nickname is “The Man With A Plan.” His real name is Steve Rogers. He’s an American hero, born and bred and super soldier serumed, an artist and a do-gooder and a fighter.

He’s her aunt’s boyfriend.

Or at least, that’s what Sharon gleans when she shows up at the nursing home with a stack of manila folders and lays eyes on the skinny individual in the black and white photo propped up on the bed stand. It takes her by surprise the first time she puts the pieces together, and another month still to work up the courage to ask what seems impossible.

“You don’t have to wonder about how it sounds,” Peggy says one day, when she notices her niece staring blankly at the frame. “You’ve heard the stories.”

“Everyone has,” Sharon replies, forcing herself to tear her gaze away and neatly compartmentalizing the shirt she’s folding into squares. What she doesn’t add is that not everyone was supposed to know the man behind those stories.

What she doesn’t add is that she doesn’t know if _she’s_ ready to know those stories.

“He never did take me dancing,” Peggy muses, picking up the picture and running her hand over the glass before putting it down with a small sigh. “Maybe he can take you instead.”

Sharon laughs. “I’m not going to steal your best man,” she says, putting her hand on her aunt’s shoulder. “You’re going to get that dance, Aunt Peggy. I’m going to make sure of it.”

“Hmm. You should worry less about me and more about your own life,” Peggy admonishes as she lowers herself into a nearby chair, regarding Sharon with a look that seems to cut through the hesitancy surrounding what she can’t say. Sharon sometimes wonders if this is how her aunt looks at the world all the time – with careful scrutiny, as if it’s so easy to detect all of life’s bullshit without even trying.

“How is it for you there, really?”

Sharon chews on her lip, struggling to find a response. “It’s not bad,” she admits. “A lot of people ask about me – well, more about you.” She motions towards her aunt with a small wave of her hand. “It’s a little hard being the niece of celebrity.”

“I hardly think I should be branded as any sort of celebrity,” Peggy returns sharply, and Sharon shakes her head.

“I don’t think they like that I can shoot better or faster,” she continues. “They talk about me behind me back, and I can tell. They also say if I get past Level One in a year, it’s not because of my skill.”

Peggy falls quiet, and drums long fingers against her knees. “Yes,” she says when she finally speaks. “They will do that, there. For as much as S.H.I.E.L.D. was built on the principle of fairness and justice, the system has never quite gotten past the ultimate patriarchy that continues to provide its backbone.”

Sharon kicks at an invisible roadblock in front of her as she turns. “But I want to be fair, and to be in control,” she insists as her aunt raises an eyebrow.

“You can be. The trick is to let them think they can control you, so that you can eventually control them – when the time comes.” Peggy’s voice turns thick, acquiring a hard edge that Sharon thinks she must have used more times than she could count when it mattered. “But never concede too much, Sharon. You don’t want to get caught up in everyone else’s agenda and forget your own.”

“I’m not sure how to do one without the other,” Sharon says a little helplessly, watching as her aunt rummages through her purse and scribbles a few dark lines across the white sheet. Sharon furrows her brow, leaning over to catch a glimpse of the cursive.

“Natasha Romanoff,” Peggy says as she hands over the torn piece of paper. “You probably know her as the Black Widow.”

“She’s Level Seven,” Sharon replies automatically, rubbing her thumb over the ink, watching it smear slightly from the heat of her skin. “Why would she even talk to me?”

Peggy smiles. “Tell her I sent you.”

“And how will that will help?” Sharon challenges.

“I didn’t say that it would,” Peggy replies smoothly, without changing her tone. “You can choose your battles in this world, Sharon. Your choices will amount to whether or not you’re alone when it all falls apart.” She gets up, leaning on her cane, her voice softening slightly.

“You don’t have to call Romanoff, and I won’t be angry if you don’t. But let’s just say she may have some understanding about how to work in this world that we’re trying so hard to fix.”

 

***

 

The first time Sharon Carter meets Natasha Romanoff, she’s not sure what to expect and tells her as much. Natasha laughs and Sharon doesn’t know whether to laugh or whether to pretend to laugh, so she does both and suddenly feels like she’s wearing the same ten masks of the woman she’s in company with.

“Not many people get to see the real me,” Natasha says when she arrives. Sharon has let her choose the meeting place, a small weathered bench at the very end of the National Mall, as well as the time: a five in the morning rendezvous when most of the world is still caught somewhere between day and night.

Sharon raises an eyebrow. “Is this the real you?”

Natasha smiles.  “What do you think?” she asks lightly as Sharon blows out a breath, tucking her legs unceremoniously underneath her and wrapping her arms around her body.

“I think that the world is full of dangerous people,” she says bluntly, evasively answering the question with the same ease that Natasha has deflected her own, watching as the other woman cocks her head.

“Well. You’re not wrong.” Natasha shoves her hands into her coat pocket, and Sharon doesn’t miss the way her hand curves around something that vaguely resembles the shape of a knife. “You’ll learn that dangerous has a different meaning when it comes to working within S.H.I.E.L.D. But…” she trails off, and Sharon leans forward.

“But?” she prods.

Natasha shrugs. “But, it seems as though your aunt taught you well. Very well, actually, judging from your files and from what I’ve heard from your trainers at the Academy.”

Sharon doesn’t bother to ask how Natasha knows about her files, or even about her skills, because she knows enough about both the organization and the woman in front of her to understand that questions like those don’t receive answers. So she asks what she really wants to know instead.

“My aunt said you had advice.”

Natasha shakes her head resolutely. “I don’t have advice,” she says almost apologetically. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you how to live in this world. But I can tell you how to survive in it.”

Sharon feels her brain crunch in confusion. “I don’t understand. How is that not the same thing?”

“Because.” Natasha looks frustrated, as if she hasn’t expected the conversation to consist of this much back and forth. “This job isn’t about just getting through the day, Carter. It’s about knowing yourself and about understanding what you feel comfortable sacrificing.”

Sharon stares straight ahead, her eyes fixating on the sky, on the thin strips of orange and yellow bleeding into a lightening canvas of grey. “Sometimes I don’t even know how I’m going to figure that out.”

Natasha removes her hands from her pockets, and lays them flat on her knees. “You learn as you go. But roadmaps are few and far between, and you have to be willing to trust your gut. Or your partner.” She stops, and Sharon thinks she can detect the faintest hint of a smile before it’s replaced with another mask she can’t read.

“And then?”

“And then from there, you learn everything else.”

Sharon sighs. “I feel like that will take forever.”

“It usually does,” Natasha agrees, rising from the bench. “But it’s worth it, when you realize you’ve made it on your own.”

 

***

 

When Sharon Carter is thirty, her world blows up.

She goes from being Sharon Carter, pink scrubbed nurse, to being Agent 13, S.H.I.E.L.D. special service, all in less time than it takes to make her morning coffee. It’s nothing that they ever could have prepared her for in training or in stories, but Sharon has no choice.

And so Sharon reacts. She reacts the same way she always has, and doesn’t bother to apologize for it. There’s no singular moment where she can stop and attempt to contact her aunt, to try to explain the things that Sharon’s sure Peggy already knows, even if it’s all over the news. So Sharon trusts her gut and hopes for the best and hopes that it ends up being enough.

Sharon Carter doesn’t like violence. But Sharon Carter also doesn’t like being lied to. She doesn’t like having her world put in danger, and she most certainly doesn’t like being forced to do something against her will. And so when the universe goes to shit and she’s told she needs to stand down, well, Sharon is going to do the opposite.

 _We are not little girls_ , Sharon thinks as she shoots firearms, holds superiors at gunpoint, and presses her palms over bleeding abdomens, rising tall over everyone who has ever dared to try to defy her.

 

***

 

“I asked you not to come,” Natasha says two weeks later from behind a pair of dark shades, in an even darker voice. Sharon shakes out her blonde hair, sliding into her seat and pushing a menu across the table in retaliation.

“I didn’t listen.”

Natasha’s lips curve into a thin smile, and she puts down the coffee cup she’s been holding hostage against her mouth.

“And I didn’t expect you to,” she replies. “In fact, if you didn’t come, I would have gone to find you myself.”

Sharon eyes her companion warily, sitting back in the chair. “You talk in riddles,” she says finally, her voice quiet. “I’m tired of riddles.”

“So am I,” Natasha concurs, leaning forward on her elbows. “Fortunately, none of that matters anymore.” She slides off her glasses carefully, allowing Sharon to see the seriousness settling into her gaze. “We take care of ourselves, now.”

Sharon wants to say that she’s been taking care of herself for a long time, long before she knew of Natasha and of S.H.I.E.L.D. and of HYDRA, and of soldiers and corruption and lies. But she doesn’t, because she knows she doesn’t need to, because she knows that there’s a certain understanding that comes from being immersed in this world, and she knows that Natasha knows this better than anyone.

“I’m going off the grid for a bit,” the redhead says after a moment of silence, before pushing her glasses back onto her face. “I need you to take care of Rogers until I return.”

“He’s going after Barnes,” Sharon says warily as the waiter places a steaming cup in front of her. “Or planning to, at least. I can’t stop him from that.”

“No, and I have it on good authority that you won’t have to,” Natasha replies. “But I would feel better if I knew someone had his back while I was away.”

“And you need that someone to be me,” Sharon says slowly, struggling to understand what she’s being tasked with. “The world’s gone to hell in a hand basket, and you’re trusting me with your secrets.”

Natasha smiles thinly. “Quite frankly, I don’t trust anyone else. You should be flattered.”

“Flattered that you’re leaving Rogers in the hand of a Level One agent,” she remarks dryly as Natasha raises an eyebrow.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’re an agent anymore, Carter. Not the way you used to be.”

Sharon doesn’t answer and steeps her tea, avoiding Natasha’s eyes, and the answer that she knows she’s already going to give.

“But you’re right,” Natasha continues. “It is a dangerous world. It’s also the only world we’ve got. And if we don’t protect it, who will?”

Sharon looks up at that, her eyes flashing. “We are not little girls,” she says almost without thinking, and Natasha smiles a little sadly, shaking her head.

“No. We’re most certainly not.”


End file.
